


It Should Have Been Me

by SleepyDragon19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John wakes up to reality, Mycroft is awesome, Sort of happy ending, Weddings, season three fix it - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyDragon19/pseuds/SleepyDragon19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are cordially invited…</p>
<p>Weddings are usually considered a time of new beginnings rather than endings; but sometimes they are both and a time of joy can break your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Should Have Been Me

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! This was meant to be a quick one shot inspired by Yvonne Flair's brilliant song of the same title but it developed a life of its own while I was writing it. 
> 
> I should probably apologise to all the Sherlock/John fans in advance. I love JohnLock - but the last series really annoyed me in the way it became the John and Mary show, ridiculing Sherlock in episode 2 and the way John just forgave Mary for something which should be unforgivable in the final episode. This was mostly written to turn the tables on John and beat some much needed sense into him.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and all rights to the song are the fantastic Yvonne Flairs.

 

_I saw my love walking down the aisle_   
_And as he passed me by_   
_He turned to me and gave me a smile_

 

Tuesday 6th September 2016

The invitation arrived just before he left for work one dull Tuesday morning. Yawning, John hardly bothered to look at the contents as he tore open the embossed high quality envelop and pulled out a small white card with the generic wedding words “You are cordially invited…” printed in careful calligraphy. Still half asleep, the sleep deprived doctor read no further, throwing the card on the table with the other junk mail to be dealt with later, before pulling on his coat, grabbing his bag and leaving for another day of GP drudgery, putting it from his mind. It was probably one of Mary’s acquaintances anyway.   

 

_Then the preacher, then the preacher_   
_The preacher joined their hands_   
_And all the people, the people began to stand_   
_When I shouted_

Friday 23rd September 2016

Three weeks later John Watson had completely forgotten about the mysterious half-read wedding invitation he had received and, if not for an unexpected phone call from Greg Lestrade about wedding presents, it would probably have continued to be forgotten (along with the other mail currently stuffed behind the microwave for future reading) for quite some time.

The call had come in during a lull between patients. Bored and more than a bit fed up with the daily monotony that came with working as a NHS family GP, John had jumped at the chance to catch up with the detective. They hadn’t seen much of each other over the last couple of years so when Lestrade phoned to ask John if he had any ideas for a good wedding present the doctor had assumed it was for one of their mutual acquaintances – most likely Molly, or maybe even Anderson, and was more than happy to rattle off some of the nicer presents he and Mary had received for their wedding.

“mmm, yeah. See I thought of a le Creuset dish, or cut glasses or something similarly traditional, but then I remembered who this was for. I mean, it’s not like Sherlock’s big on tradition and he has those hundred year old cut glasses he inherited from his great grandmother or something – you know, the French one. John- ” the detective added when the silence from the other end started becoming awkward. “You still there mate?”

Alone in his monochrome office, John was suddenly very glad he had been sitting down when his mobile had rung. It was like his brain was stuck. He could still hear Greg’s voice coming through the tinny speaker of his phone but it sounded so very far away as the name rolled around his mind. Sherlock. It was Sherlock who was getting married. Sherlock who Greg was looking for buy a wedding present for.

It was…it was ludicrous.

It was Inconceivable.

It was Impossible.

Sherlock didn't date. Sherlock didn't even like women. Sherlock was married to his work. Sherlock was…

The persistent squawking from the phone clutched to his ear eventually roused John enough to reply to the concerned voice calling his name.

“Yes, I'm still here” John stated, “sorry, I thought for a moment you said Sherlock was getting married.”

“That’s because he is. October 1st Saint Mathilda’s Church, Devon.”

John laughed. “That’s a good one - almost had me there for a moment. You know you’re a couple of months too late for April fool’s day, Greg.”

“Wait! What?!? John this isn't a joke. Sherlock’s getting married in seven days. Do you mean you didn't know? But I thought…" Greg paused, "aren't you best man?” the detective asked eventually, desperately confused.

“Best man? No, no I'm not. Look, I've not spoken to Sherlock in couple of weeks but there is absolutely no way Sherlock’s getting married. Are you sure someone’s not playing a joke on you?”

“Christ. No, I'm sure it’s not a joke. Look what time can you get off work?”

“Erm, round five.”

“Perfect, I’ll meet you at the Golden Lion at quarter past then.” And with those parting words the unexpected phone call was over just as suddenly as it had begun.

Still sitting in the same place as ten minutes previously, John wondered at how quickly life could change while he remained stationary in his colourless office.

Wendy paged from reception that his 2pm appointment had finally arrived. Rubbing his face tiredly, John, told the receptionist to send Mrs Walhemburg through, as he tried to get his brain to focus on work and not on the honking great elephant that had taken up residence where his phone was resting on the desk. This was all one big misunderstanding. Greg had to be mistaken.

Sherlock couldn't be getting married.

 

_"You know that it should have been me"_  
_Instead of her walking with you_  
_You know that it should have been me, oh baby_  
_Gettin' ready to marry you, darlin', darlin', darlin'_

 

Three hours later found John sitting in a pub down the road from his clinic waiting for the detective to return with their drinks.

“Wait – are you saying that you didn't know about Emma?” Greg questioned in confusion “but she came to Laura’s birthday party a while back, you must have known Sherlock was dating – I mean, he wasn't exactly shy about introducing her as his girlfriend - or bringing her along to crime scenes either for that matter, and she’s basically moved into Baker Street; they've had dinner parties and everything”.

John fiddled with his pint glass as he thought back to his daughter’s birthday party nearly seven months before. It had been a stressful day that he’d done his level best to forget. It had started badly enough with another disturbed night; Laura had had a cold and was waking every forty-five minutes with an irritable shriek. Then to make matters worse, Mary had booked a clown as the children’s entertainer but instead of amusing the group of six toddlers and assorted older siblings, as he was meant to, Bobo seemed to petrify them which led to a sobbing, shrieking cacophony as the children descended into hysterics. Mary had been totally useless in comforting and quietening their daughter (or the other children) so he had had to do it while simultaneously avoiding Mary’s Mums.net group of friends who always managed to wind him up by offering unsolicited advice in the most patronising way possible as if he had no idea how to be a father or deal with children. By the time Sherlock had arrived (nearly an hour after the party was meant to have started) John had been beyond frazzled and had neither the time nor the inclination to socialise. He had a vague memory of Sherlock trying to introduce him to someone or other he had brought with him to the party (a doctor of some sort, John thought) but he had assumed it was another Janine situation and paid little attention to it.

“The podgy one?” Greg nodded. “I thought she was another Janine” John explained shortly “you know, he was pretending to date her for a case and he’d brought her as part of his cover”.

Greg snorted in poorly concealed laughter at that before stating “mate, if how he behaves with Emma is part of a performance than Sherlock deserves a blood Oscar. Those two are so in love and in tune with each other it’s nauseating – they’re even worse than you and Sherlock were and I thought you were the real deal for years”.

“Yes, well…” John began irritably “I’m not gay and Sherlock has all the bloody sexuality of a dead fish so excuse me for not jumping on the relationship bandwagon. It must be for a case, it has to be. He’s not interested in sex and no woman would be able to put up with him even if her were. This wedding has to be for case, its the only explanation that makes sense.”

Greg shook his head, eyes almost bleeding sympathy at his friend’s determined denial. It was only too clear that John really had no idea how Sherlock had changed over the last few years. “Well whatever your thoughts are on this wedding I’d suggest keeping them to yourself. They seem a right happy pair to me and if on the slim chance this is one of Sherlock’s cases he’ll not thank you for messing it up”.

“So we’re just going to go along with this farce then?” John demanded angrily.

“Mate, most marriage is a farce of some sort or another – just look at my last two - but people still do it anyway and their reasons for doing it should be respected.”

Trust John to pick now, of all bloody times, to get jealous and possessive. Over six years John had known Sherlock. Six years! Two of them spent living with the detective, and granted there that period of eighteen months where everyone thought Sherlock had committed suicide but he’d been back in their lives for over three years now and John had even moved back in with the detective for a while after that mysterious shooting back in 2013. Yes, all of them had believed prior to his apparent death that Sherlock and John were an item, or about to become one, but everything had changed when John got engaged to someone else. After months of pining Sherlock had finally moved on and found someone he could spend his life with. Greg might not be the sharpest knife in the box but you would have to be blind and deaf (and quite possibly dead) to miss the heart break in Sherlock’s voice as he declared himself unworthy of the best man he knew and then gave him away to his new wife.

Surprise, Greg could understand, Sherlock wasn't the most sociable person after all and the idea of the world’s only consulting detective and marriage were not the most natural of bedfellows. The D.I. could even appreciate that this news might have been quite a big shock for the doctor – especially as it seemed he wasn't aware of the romantic development in their friend’s life. But this level of reaction, the denial and the anger was rather (he would even go so far as to say _very_ ) worrying.

This had the potential to go very, very wrong.

Emma wasn't what anyone had been expecting, but she worked. A doctor of Criminology she had a brain like a bacon slicer when it came to all things crime related. She loved the violin and was a talented fiddler herself and mores the wonder didn't just tolerate the detective’s experiments but actively joined in with them. Doctor Emma Llywelyn had fitted almost seamlessly into the gap left by John Watson after his marriage and had become a close friend to all those who cared for Sherlock.

Greg watched the doctor’s face carefully, noting the stubborn disagreement practically carved into his forehead and truculent set to his jaw, before trying one last time to avert the catastrophe he could see looming in the future. No good would come from John pursuing this (particularly as Sherlock appeared to have  _finally_ moved on) and he could do a great deal of harm if he repeated these comments to anyone else. “My dad used to tell me that marriage is a mistake all men should make. If this is a mistake, it’s Sherlock’s mistake, and we’ll just be there to pick up the pieces. Sherlock was there at your wedding wasn't he? And he didn't try anything to stop it although I’d bet my kidneys he’d have done almost anything for it not to be happening.”

And that had been all the detective would say on the matter. Half an hour later as they were preparing to leave the pub Greg turned to the doctor an uncertain expression on his face as he clapped him on the shoulder goodbye. “Look, I know it’s not my place – and I doubt you want my input now – but…well, that was a pretty strong reaction back there, maybe you should have a think about why it bothers you so much that Sherlock’s getting married cause most of his other friends are just happy he’s found someone. Anyway, just a thought” and with that parting piece of advice Greg stomped away towards where he had left his car desperately hoping he hadn't just poked a hornets nest.

John stared after his disappearing friend feeling even more confused. It was official – the world had gone nuts and he was the only sane person left. For a moment there it had seemed like Greg had been implying that he might have been jealous.

Bonkers, it was just… bonkers.

 

_You made a promise that we would never part_  
_Then you turned around and you broke my little heart_  
_Now you're standing there saying, "I do"_  
_Holding hands with somebody new_

  
  
The weekend following John’s conversation with Lestrade was difficult. Decidedly out of sorts for no reason that John could actually pin point, the doctor had faffed around his house in a prickly mood, getting under Mary’s feet and generally not being very helpful. He was distracted and short tempered with Laura, irritable and cranky in the face of his wife’s concern and couldn't seem to settle. At last fed up with his own intemperance and bad humour, John set about giving the kitchen a thorough clean in the hope of unearthing the vaguely remembered, misplaced mystery wedding invitation from its hiding place and solving the question of Sherlock’s possible marriage once and for all.

Whooping in glee at his discovery, John proceeded to yank the high quality card from its cover, ripping the envelop in the process, before dropping the card from suddenly numb fingers. He had been so sure, so convinced, so certain that Greg had been mistaken but, well, there was no denying it now. There on the invitation he had dismissed as unimportant, twinkling up at him under the kitchen light, was Sherlock’s name in flowing gold script.

 

_To John and Mary Watson_

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of_

_Sherlock Ambrose Holmes to Doctor Emma Lillian Llywelyn_

_11 o’clock on the 1 st of October 2016_

_At the Parish of St Mathilda’s, Arlington Court, Devonshire_

_No RSVP is required_

Concerned about her husband’s sudden stillness in the middle of an unprecedented kitchen clean-a-thon Mary came over to the counter and upon seeing the unmistakeable wedding invitation had picked it up to see who it was from. Her laughter after reading it did not help John’s mood in the slightest, nor did her derisive snort when John had explained that it must be for a case because Sherlock was incapable of maintaining an actual relationship. Mary’s pitying expression as she patronisingly patted him on the head before leaving the kitchen to tend to Laura was the merely another nail in the coffin of the doctor’s usually calm mood.

John needed answers, and he needed them now. Ten minutes later, he had settled himself in their bedroom with his laptop and a mug of hot (and hopefully calming) tea. It was time to unleash Google and find out exactly who Sherlock’s fiancé was. If there was to be any hope of John helping his best friend with what had to be a very important case he would need to know everything he could about this mystery woman; he would not sit idly by again while Sherlock got into another Janine/Magnussen situation.

Google, as it transpired, did not have all of the answers in this case. Not that the search engine should shoulder all of the blame; after all, it did find Doctor Emma Lillian Llywelyn, Criminology lecturer at Sussex University. It wasn’t really Google’s fault that Dr Llywelyn seemed to have eschewed all forms of social media or web presence apart from her frustratingly bland university page.

Half an hour spent faffing about on the internet and all John had learnt was that Dr Llywelyn was a 30 something senior lecturer specialising in criminal profiling, forensic accounting and organised crime. There was some mention of working with the MET as a consultant but it was annoyingly vague. Her listed interests included the violin, bee keeping and her two Labradors and that was it. Nothing more. Nadda. Zilp. Zitch. No blog, no Facebook page, no twitter account, nothing. Who in this day didn’t have a web presence or at least one social media profile?

Well, Mary didn't, but that was hardly a reassuring comparison, and only served to cause the doctor's worry to spike as he considered the type of people who had interested his friend before. 

If it wasn’t one of the many taboo topics on their carefully maintained banned conversations list John would have been tempted to ask Mary if she knew any good hackers. Doctor Llywelyn had to be hiding something.

Annoyed, and now more than ever convinced that this was some sort of elaborate front for a case, John slammed the lid of his laptop closed with a loud clack. If Google couldn’t provide the answers, maybe it was time to get the information he needed from the horse’s mouth.

It was time to go visit the morgue.

******************

John couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief as he clambered out of the black cab; the familiar and much loved sight of 221B Baker Street soothing his severely frazzled nerves. It looked just the same – an unchanging fixture of the last six years and, hopefully, the antidote to what had turned out to be a singularly infuriating morning.

It hadn't taken much in the way of thinking to persuade John to call in sick to the clinic earlier that morning. This whole mess had left the doctor out of sorts and even more sleep deprived than usual. So, bright and early he had set off towards the morgue at St. Barts fully intending to corner Molly and demand some answers to the questions currently plaguing his exhausted mind.

The plan had been going a pace, well at least in the early stages at any rate. John had managed to catch Molly in the middle of a stack of paperwork she was quite keen to take a break from. Agreeing to a coffee and catch up all had been ticking along nicely – until that was John opened his mouth and somehow managed to insert both feet simultaneously. Even now nearly two hours later the doctor was at a loss to explain exactly what had happened or why Molly had started shouting loudly in the deserted hospital cafeteria before telling John that he 'could go fuck himself' as she stormed off with a dramatic whirl of her white lab coat. 

Still sat at the table, mouth lax in shock at this uncharacteristic display, John stared at the retreating back of the pathologist. Evidently, Molly had either gone insane in the six months or so since they had last talked or was suffering from a chronic case of PMT and John had just picked a really bad day to bother her. There was absolutely no way that what she had implied was true. Yes, he might have been busy the last couple of months and unable to see Sherlock as often as the detective might like but he was still his best (and probably only) friend and Sherlock would have told him in person if he was going to get married. There was no way his friend had fallen in love with this mystery criminologist.

Desperate for answers John had rushed out of the cafeteria to the taxi rank. With Mary choosing to be a stay-at-home mother until Laura was old enough for school money was much tighter than it used to be, even with his decent GP salary, which usually made using London taxis an unaffordable luxury except in case of emergency. Today was one of those exceptions. He had to see Sherlock and he had to see him now.

Now standing before the familiar black door, John felt calmer than he had in months. Baker Street still felt more like home than any other place he had ever lived. Almost giddy with nerves and elation at being back John fumbled with his keys as he tried to locate the correct one. Eventually finding it, John slid the key into the lock and twisted it.

The lock didn’t budge.

John tried it again.

The lock still didn’t budge.  

Staring at the key in confusion John checked to make sure it was the right one. It looked like the right key – it had the familiar blue hat Sherlock had put on it after John had got his keys mixed up one too many times. Maybe the hat been switched onto a different key when Laura had been playing with his key ring last week.

Five minutes, and every key on the key ring later, John finally admitted defeat and rapped sharply on the brass knocker. The Mrs Hudson who opened the door to him was just as remembered her and John quickly found himself being towed through the hallway and into one of the overstuffed chairs in her flat, cup of tea and plate of biscuits occupying both hands, as his old landlady prattled on about Mrs Turner’s married ones next door and the former Vegas card shark who had recently joined her Bridge club.

“…of course we had no idea, but Sherlock must have spotted something, you know the way he does, because next thing we knew he had pulled up her sleeves and these cards came-”.

“Yes, speaking of Sherlock, Mrs Hudson do you know where he is? Only, you see, I was hoping to speak with him”. John interrupted abruptly when it became apparent that Mrs Hudson wasn't going to stop to draw breath any time soon.

“… flying out – what? Sherlock, dear? Well, I'm sure I don’t know. He mentioned something about popping into his tailors for one last fitting; then I think he’s off to Sussex to pick something up. He won’t be back before Wednesday at the earliest he said, when he’s coming back to pick me up and escort me to Devon. I told him not to make such a fuss of course but he’s got it into his head that I can’t be trusted to travel by train on my own so he’s having Mycroft send us a car. Oh, isn't it exciting, John?”

“Devon?” her visitor questioned weakly.

“For the wedding, of course. I know it’s on the Saturday, but Sherlock said he didn't want me tired out by travelling down so we’re going down a day early. His parents are doing the same thing too, and dear Mycroft as well if he can get away. Such a busy man, but he’s been ever so helpful about this wedding – simply couldn't do enough.”

“Mycroft and Sherlock getting along” John laughed, “now I know this whole thing must be a prank, either that or a matter of national security”.

Mrs Hudson looked reproachfully at the doctor, “now, John, I know they haven’t always got along very well but you must have noticed that it’s been different since Sherlock came home. They’re ever so close now, Mycroft’s always popping in for tea and dinner – especially when Emma is here. He’s best man you know.”

“What?!?!? But…but Sherlock can’t stand him”.

“Time changes most things, I find.”

“Most things, maybe, but not everything.” John argued, frowning at his former landlady.

“Hmmm” Mrs Hudson murmured almost sadly as her eyes searched the doctor’s face “maybe not everything; even when it would be better if it did”.

The silence following that gnomic statement was quickly becoming suffocating. Mrs Hudson appeared unusually lost in thought as she sipped her tea and John was left feeling increasingly out of his depth in waters he was sure he knew well.  

“He’s really getting married then?” John ventured at last.

“Yes” Mrs Hudson smiled before frowning in confusion. “Didn't you know?”

“No, that is, I…misplaced the invitation, found it over the weekend”.

“But…you must have known he was engaged. He proposed back at the beginning of August.”

If John looked only half as uncomfortable as he felt about that piece of news he thought he deserved an award for his acting skills. August? But why hadn't Sherlock told him? He had been on holiday for the last two weeks of July, that was true, but he had been home by the second (and he was sure he had told his friend this) – so why hadn't Sherlock told him about the engagement? Come to that, why hadn't he introduced this girlfriend to him if it was so serious. After all, a ten minute drop by during a child’s party hardly counted as a suitable introduction to your best mate. And anyway, that was months ago – lots of time for them to have arranged a meet up, they could even have gone on a double date. John considered those thoughts before putting them to one side, writing off the sour, cramping, feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of a double date as the prospect of dealing with Sherlock’s embarrassing social inadequacies with his brain to mouth filter when it came to not deducing everyone in his immediate vicinity. They must have met up several times over the last couple of months (although for the life of his John couldn't place exactly when) and hadn't said anything...

“It probably didn't occur to him” John decided at last. “You know what he’s like” he added with a smile. “He probably thought it was dull and deleted the whole event”.

“Perhaps”, Mrs Hudson didn't look particularly convinced.

Trying for jocular but missing by quite a margin, John raised the new topic that was bothering him – that of his key.  

The look of surprise mixed with something that might have been pity on his former landlady’s face really was becoming quite familiar today, John thought moodily, as Mrs Hudson exclaimed “Your key? But that was months ago”.

“What was months ago, Mrs Hudson?” the doctor asked as patiently as he could through gritted teeth.

“Oh, my…well…was it seven or eight months ago now? Hmmmm, yes, that’s right it was after that thing, you know the one I mean, the one with the new vampires, or was it nude vampires”.

John did not know.

“It was in all the newspapers, though of course they couldn't release any of the names involved – something to do with one of the family’s being involved in politics, but it was quite a scandal. Poor Sherlock, I don’t think he slept through the whole thing. Anyway, it was after that, that Sherlock had all the locks changed – something about security, he said.Anyway, he had new keys cut for everyone at the same time, but it's odd... I would have thought he’d have given you that new key  at little Laura’s birthday party. Oh well, it must have slipped his mind. How is little darling Laura by the way?”

And just like that the subject was changed, swept under a carpet of family focused conversation. The next fifteen minutes was spent answering question upon question about Laura and Mary, showing photos on his phone, as he explained about his daughter’s progress and the new things she was mastering every day to his delighted audience. Almost before he knew it his second cup of tea was finished, the biscuits had all gone and he was being politely hustled out of the door as his landlady excused herself for a dentist appointment she had nearly forgotten about.

It was only on the way home, emotionally drained and still confused that he remembered something his old landlady had said, the locks had been changed in late January. Laura’s birthday party had been on the 12th of February. Mrs Hudson had confirmed that Sherlock had had a key cut for him – so why hadn't his friend given it to him at Laura’s birthday party, or any time after? Mrs Hudson might be content with thinking that Sherlock had forgotten, but…this was Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't forget these sorts of things. So why hadn't he told him about the locks? Or his engagement?

What was going on?

 

_You know that it should have been me_  
_Instead of her standing by you_  
_You know that it should have been me_  
_It should have been me_  
_Gettin' ready to say, "I do"_

 

Saturday 1st October 2016

The day of the wedding arrived, as these things do, far too soon for John’s liking and before he had managed to work out what was going on. 

It was a bright, glorious autumnal day – the trees, just on the point of turning, were a stunning mix of reds, greens and ambers. The wedding venue itself was a fairy-tale like Georgian mansion that would not have been out of place in one of those Jane Austen movies Mary was so fond of watching with her fellow stay-at-home mothers.

All in all it was sickeningly perfect. There were even swans gadding about on the lake that wrapped around the eastern side of the house.

The wedding was due to start in less than an hour in the picturesque church John could just about see through the tree line. The other guests were already arriving, parking in designated spaces as familiar faces from Sherlock’s homeless network directed each vehicle to where it needed to go. Mary was complaining in the seat next to him about her shoes and the quarter mile uphill walk to the church from where they had been told to park but it barely registered as the doctor took in the surroundings.  

It was all wrong.

This wasn't Sherlock.

The big house, the large wedding, the bride in white, the church, the careful choreography and adherence to tradition – this wasn't _his_ Sherlock.

His Sherlock was impetuous and impulsive.

His Sherlock laughed at rules and loved to confound expectation.

His Sherlock was free, almost fae like, in his inhumanity.

This was like a picture post-card wedding that was suffocating in the fantasy falseness.

This wasn't right. But, as he listened to the happy chatter of the guests winding their way up the tree lined path, why was it that only John could see it?

 

_Then the preacher, oh yeah_   
_The preacher asked that there be silence, please_   
_If any objections to this wedding_   
_Speak now or forever or forever hold your peace_

 

Time sped past with all the force of a cavalry charge. Almost before John had realised it the service was over and he was seated at a round table in the Disney like high ceilinged ballroom waiting for Mycroft, of all people, as best man to give his speech. Where had the time gone? It felt like only yesterday that Sherlock had pulled his Lazarus act and appeared in the restaurant dressed as a waiter.

Up close the new Mrs Holmes was even more of a contrast to her husband. Average height, average features, slightly over-weight with non-descript light brown hair and a self-conscious manner Emma could not have been more different to tall, striking, effervescent and irreverent Sherlock. She was so…so boring and non-descript. The sort of woman you could sit next to for hours on a train and still not notice – a far cry from the Irene Adlers and Jim Moriartys of the world – and yet, this was who his friend had chosen; not the strikingly beautiful, clever, confident and manipulative play fellows who captured his interest in The Game but a woman who believed in law and justice, who wasn't brilliant or amazingly attractive, a woman who brought her dogs along to her wedding and gave them pride of place at the top table. Oh, he had no doubt she was clever – but no more than John, and Sherlock had never failed to point out what an idiot he was; so why Emma? What made this common university lecturer so special?

Mycroft clinking his glass and calling for everyone’s attention brought John attention back to the here-and-now with an unpleasant jolt as the older man shuffled his cards around and launched into his speech.

_“Good afternoon ladies and Gentleman. On behalf of the bride and groom I thank you for being here and sharing this wonderful day with us. Even the weather is behaving itself – although contrary to what my brother may have told you, that is not actually within my power to arrange. I have been given to understand that it is the duty of the best man to give a speech at these occasions; one full of witticisms, embarrassing stories and useful advice for the newly married couple. As a novice in these matters I will have to beg your indulgence and will only promise you that I will be as brief as possible so that we can get on to dinner…which knowing my brother is the reason he has chosen to depart from the standard format of dinner and then speeches.”_

The smug smile on Sherlock’s face at this comment caused a howl of laughter from the guests, some of whom started clapping or stamping their feet, shouting “here, here!”

_“First things first” Mycroft continued once the hubbub had calmed down “the matter of the gift list. My apologies over the first one, I hope everyone received the updated list? I can only say it was an error of judgement to leave the gift selection in the hands of my brother and his newly wedded partner in crime. What they needed twenty-six toasters, fourteen microwaves, a centrifuge and a cattle prod for is probably a question best left unanswered – especially with the number of policemen in the room with us today. The new gift list has been approved of by no less than myself, our parents and Detective Inspector Lestrade so it should be safe for the greater London area to leave them with Sherlock and Emma unsupervised”_

More laughter

_“Ladies and gentlemen, today is a great day – a red letter day, to use a popular idiom. I think I am not alone in admitting my surprise that we are gathered here to celebrate the wedding of a man who maintained for years that “women were not his area”. Perhaps all he needed was to meet the right one, and two years ago he met Emma. For those of you who were not party to their first meeting, they were introduced just after the Moriarty broadcast on New Year’s day 2014. Emma was brought in as a civilian support analyst seconded to Scotland Yard. It was obvious from the start that they would make a most formidable team…if they ever stopped arguing that is. The poets tell us true partnership is a rare and beautiful thing and, having been privileged to watch first-hand the courtship between these two, I can only agree. A pair more suited to each other would be hard to find.”_

_“But enough of the sentimental twoddle. My brother reminded me recently that murders are usually committed by people known to the victim, most often the spouse. With this in mind I felt I should offer some advice to you, Emma, considering the talents and hobbies you share with my brother. Marriage is full of trials and tribulations and marriage to Sherlock will undoubtedly be more…interesting than most. If the time comes that you do decide to do away with your husband please, for his sake, make it interesting and difficult to solve. Nothing, I am sure, would offend him more than a common place or half-hearted effort that is easily unravelled..._ _and if you ever need help hiding the body – you have but to ask.”_

More laughter broke out, particularly from Lestrade’s table, as he and Sally both started shouting out various suggestions and ideas. 

_“I could go on and on, but with tummy’s rumbling I feel it best to just say this” at this Mycroft turned towards his new sister-in-law and picked up his champagne flute “with two such persons as yourself and Sherlock and your mutual interests I am assured that you will never have a dull home life and I am certain that everyone here will raise a glass with me to wish you well in it. Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom”._

If Mycroft’s speech had been painful to sit through what came after made it pale into insignificance.

Sherlock’s gift to his new wife. Rather than the traditional present of jewellery the detective had composed an original violin solo for her; which he played before everyone. Stunning, beautiful, romantic, moving beyond words it was just…just perfect. It made the melodies he had composed for The Woman and his own wedding seem like amateur, half-hearted scribblings in comparison. Even the name he had given it was sickeningly sentimental – Soulbound – the Sherlock he knew would never have written a piece like that. It had to be part of his act – it had to be, _just_ had to be part of the performance, for the case. And yet…the emotion of the piece…; John’s stomach seemed to have lead weight in it as he watched Emma’s enraptured reaction to the music – her joy clear and unmistakable – but Sherlock’s face was worse, open and oh so very human as he was swept along by the emotion in the music he had created.

It was all wrong.

All of it.

The whole day was wrong and it seemed like John was the only one who could see it. He had waited with all the impatience of a child at Christmas for the point in the service where the Registrar would ask those gathered if they knew of any objections to the marriage. He had waited with baited breath as the officiant had formed those words, muscles tensing as he prepared to intercede, to react and support Sherlock as he pulled out at the last minute and explained that it had been an elaborate ruse for one of his cases.

No one had spoken. There had only been total silence and then before John had even come to terms with it, let alone formed the words to object, the moment was over and the Registrar was pronouncing them husband and wife.

Too late. Once again John Watson was too late to stop his best friend from jumping. He had been too late; time had marched on, relentless and ruthless, pulling John screaming and kicking in its wake.

 

*****************

 

The dinner itself seemed interminable – dragging on and on, and made so much worse by the tittering reminisces and stories being shared by the other six people on the table. As he wasn't best man he and Mary couldn't be seated on the top table with the main wedding party. In what had obviously been meant as a nod to his importance to Sherlock, though, he had been placed on the table with the three bridesmaids and extended family members. What this meant in reality, however, was that John had now spent the best part of the two hour long meal listening to increasingly tipsy Emma supporters sharing funny stories about the bride and groom that had Mary laughing and offering a few of her own. At first it had merely irked him, then it had rankled, but by the time dessert arrived John’s emotions were hitting explosive levels at the blatant wrongness of the situation. If asked John couldn't have explained why such normal wedding behaviour was making him so angry, but it indisputably was. The quiet crack of the no doubt expensive cut glass champagne flute and sudden burning sensation brought John back to himself with a shock. Looking down at the broken glass he slowly opened his clenched fist – shards of glass dipped with shiny red landing with gentle ‘tinkle plops’ on the pristine white table cloth.

It was the sort of thing John had thought only happened in the movies. Certainly he had never crushed a glass with his bare hand before, John had thought dispassionately as he quietly excused himself from the other guests seated at their table. Ignoring his wife’s worried frown and concerned questions the doctor made his way out of the ballroom and into the house proper. He needed to get away before he made an even bigger spectacle of himself by punching the bride or confronting Sherlock about the stupidity of this bloody elaborate ruse.

 

*****************

 

Considering the amount of alcohol John had put away over the course of the afternoon and the turbulent emotions simmering away it was perhaps predictable that a confrontation of some sort would occur.

The inevitable moment, when it finally happened, didn't play out as John was expecting either. Sullenly nursing his cut hand, the doctor had retreated to the house with the intention of finding a first aid kit. Having sourced plasters and disinfectant from a helpful member of staff (who looked oddly like Fiona from the homeless network), John had wandered around the house lost in thought, only too happy to avoid the suffocating cheerfulness of the post dinner crowd now gathered outside. His brooding solitude came to an abrupt end when he quite literally bumped into Mycroft as he meandered through the maze like interior of the Georgian mansion.

Steady brown eyes assessed him carefully for a moment before stating firmly “I think we had better go and find somewhere a little more private than a hallway if we are going to have this particular conversation” before the older Holmes turned around and ushered him through a nearby door.

The room Mycroft led him into was a large, conservatory like room with floor to ceiling windows which overlooked the milling crowd of wedding guests spread out across the grounds.  It was a testament to how out of sorts he was that John initially complied with Mycroft’s commands with not even a murmur of protest as the older man hustled him across the room to the large windows before pressing a glass of something old and potent into his uninjured hand. And so it might have continued had John not then spotted through those beautiful picture windows Sherlock whirling his new bride round the area set up for dancing.

The next ten minutes would later be regarded by John as some of the worst and most embarrassing of his life as all the anger, frustration, jealousy and confusion came spewing out in a loud, vitriolic diatribe aimed at the man in front of him. As the outburst slowly came to an end a cold eyed Myrcoft, tapping his omni-present umbrella against the hardwood floor, looked the man in front of him before cutting through to the heart of the matter in his usual supercilious tone:

“hmm…Why are you really angry, John? Is it because you object to Sherlock marrying Emma specifically? Or is it that you hate the idea of anyone but you holding his heart?

  
_Then I shouted, "It should have been me"_  
 _You know that it should have been me_  
 _You know that it should have been me_  
 _Baby, how could you do this to me? Darlin', darlin', darlin'_

The silence and tension was so thick in the room you could almost cut it with a knife. Considering the number of people who had asked or outright speculated about his relationship with Sherlock over the years (most notably Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty, Janine, Greg, Molly, Mycroft himself and even the bloody press) it was the first time anyone had put the question so starkly and left a shocked John staring, pole-axed, at the man in front of him as the neatly ordered lies he had built his world upon started to crash down around him.

Looking away from the glacial eyes of the British Government John stared woodenly over the best man’s shoulder at the tableau visible through the large Georgian window overlooking the beautiful grounds. Greg Lestrade, one arm around a bashful Molly, had his glass raised in an impromptu toast. Mike Stamford was attempting to lead a tipsy Mrs Hudson round the dance floor as the beautiful string quartet commissioned for the occasion played a waltz. Anderson and Sally were busy entertaining two of the bridesmaids by the chocolate fountain while the elder Mr and Mrs Holmes chatted to the photographer admiring the towering masterpiece of confection a blubbing Angelo had presented earlier as the wedding cake.

But there in the centre of the organised chaos, radiant as the sun, stood Sherlock – his laughter ringing loud and clear as he participated in a game of blind man’s bluff with the new Mrs Holmes, her nephews and Greg’s boisterous brood.

“It should have been me” John erupted furiously as the crushing realisation sank in, his brain churning and churning as thoughts raced by at a dizzying speed.

“It should…It _should_ have been _me_!” he repeated louder as the pieces clicked together in his head and the boiling anger and sense of injustice roiled and curled in his gut. He had been Sherlock’s first, best and closest friend. It was John that had stood by Sherlock through many a harried case, losing sleep and barely eating as he chased across England after the infuriatingly brilliant man who needed someone to ground him, care for him and protect him against those who would hurt him. And when Moriarty had been weaving his tangled web of lies it had been he alone that had believed in Sherlock and refused to turn away. It was for John that the detective had faked his suicide and it was for John that he had shot Magnussen. He should have been Sherlock’s heart – not Emma, not this chubby, average looking interloper. 

“Yes” Mycroft agreed equably, his voice ringing with an odd finality in the suffocating silence of the conservatory.

“Everybody here today knows that this day should – even would – have been yours for the taking” Mycroft continued icily as he stared resolutely at his brother’s puffed up former best friend, umbrella twirling in his hands as if to punctuate his point, "but John? You chose Mary.”

John’s mouth closed with an audible click; all of his righteously indignant arguments dissipating like the hot air they really were in the face of the stark candour which whacked him in face with all the force of a Mack truck. There was nothing he could say to that – no argument he could make, no contradiction or excuse. The plain truth was he _had_ married Mary, and had then stayed married to her.

Almost without thought his eyes focused on where Mary was watching their toddling daughter – alone, off to one side, away from the main hubbub of the party; invited to the festivities yet banished to the periphery – accepted but not welcome – a horrid metaphor for the life he had seemingly chosen when he had let Sherlock walk away from him once off that bloody plane.

Some part of him had always known (well at least since the detective’s return) that it wasn't straightforward friendship Sherlock felt for him. Even for a complete dunderhead like him Sherlock’s speech at his wedding raised great big warning flags; he didn't need Greg’s well-meaning but poorly worded ‘it’s like he was marrying you that day, mate’ to make him aware of Sherlock’s feelings – his decision at Christmas to shoot Magnussen in order to protect the woman, who had fully intended to kill him, because she was John’s wife and he loved her was merely the final nail in the proverbial coffin of platonic friendship. Friends, even best friends don’t make those kind of sacrifices.

But he had made a commitment to Mary when he married her, and she was carrying his child. So he went back to her and remade his life around her in the hopes of making it work (and eventually forgetting what he knew of her past) as he had promised her on that fateful Christmas day.

He had put his suspicions about Sherlock’s feelings to one side and decided to ignore them in favour of playing house with Mary and for the past two years it had worked, more or less. If there were times he had missed Sherlock’s presence and their old life like an absent limb, and wondered if he had made the right choice in forgiving Mary, there was nothing he could do. His wife needed his support with Laura and fatherhood proved to be more time consuming than he could have anticipated.

And anyway, he wasn't gay. 

 

*****************

 

Marriages were meant to be a time of new beginnings. John had grown up believing in the Hallmark message that weddings were a happy time of celebrating and joy. No one had ever warned him that all beginnings require an ending, nor that a time of such joy could break your heart. Was this how Sherlock had felt at his and Mary’s wedding? Was this crushing sense of loneliness, of exclusion, of the gentle but inexorable elimination of their old life the reason why Sherlock had left the party early on and without telling anyone? A goodbye so final he couldn't bear to say it.

He had told him in the run up to his wedding that nothing would change – he had promised Sherlock that it wouldn't – but of course it had; an unexpected baby and the awkwardness that had sprung up like a wall between his wife and his best friend following the shooting, and Magnussen and the birth had seen to that. Nothing could possibly be the same in the wake of that year, just as nothing had really been the same since Sherlock had jumped.

With an expression that might have be called sympathetic if it was worn by anyone else, Mycroft watched him silently, letting the doctor process the flood of thoughts and realisations. They had been a long time coming and it was sod’s law that it was today of all days that the penny had chosen to drop. Mycroft was not a man prone to acknowledging (or feeling) softer emotions. They were not conducive to his line of work and whether by choice or biology he had never been overly encumbered with the same debilitating chemical handicap that most of humanity shared. But looking at the doctor now the British Government was almost moved to feel pity for the man who’s determined obliviousness had led right here to this day and this moment when he realised the true extent of his loss. The damage John could do to his brother and his new sister-in-law with this knowledge was both profound and far reaching. It would be oh so very easy for him to upset the delicate balance of both their marriages to the detriment of all.

Mary would not take well to John leaving her – especially not for Sherlock. Whether or not his brother would accept John’s offer (assuming he _finally_ managed to get over his instinctive ‘ _not gay’_ reflex) was another matter entirely. Sherlock and Emma were well suited but…there was a troubling connection binding John and his brother and Sherlock had never been particularly fond of being predictable. With the way John was feeling and acting there was a very good chance he could willingly, and deliberately, bring down the house of cards his marriage was built upon. The ramifications from which would be terrible and quite possibly life threatening; at the very least they would generate an obscene amount of paperwork – which was something Mycroft preferred to avoid where possible.   

Time ticked by with an agonising slowness as the older Holmes considered the best way to deal with this latest hiccough. Eventually, in a voice so full of sinister gentleness that it made John wish the floor underneath him would open up and swallow him whole, Mycroft continued calmly “now that you've got that off your chest, John, let’s have a chat about Fairy Tales.”

“Fairy tales-” John began in confusion only for the older man to continue speaking – completely ignoring John’s half formed question.

“Specifically the one whose ending you are now writing. Jim Moriarty spoke a lot about fairy tales those weeks he spent _enjoying_ my hospitality. I believe he thought of himself as Prince Charming; at least he did until he realised that it wasn't _his_ kiss that had awoken sleeping beauty but that of a bungling, and oh so very ordinary, commoner. He was very angry about that, you know. So angry that he then recast himself as a cross between Rumpelstiltskin and the Brothers Grimm; the villain, the granter of wishes and the puppet master all rolled into one. Sherlock’s suicide in 2012 was meant to be the final movement of the fairy tale he had written for my brother. It had all of the requisite elements of a true fairy story. The misunderstood, apparently heartless prince and his meteoric rise to glory, the fall because of a fatal flaw that showed him for the monster lurking inside; Moriarty even included the ubiquitous love interest – the true love for whom the hero would willingly die. But it wasn't the end, no. Rumpelstiltskin had underestimated his sleeping beauty who  changed the ending.The hero vanquished his nemesis and made safe the world for his love but when he returned from war it was to find life had moved on without him. So the hero did what he has always done, he adapted. He couldn't go back to how he was before – for once awoken from its long sleep his heart would no longer be ignored. Instead he chose to continue protecting his love, his breathing heart, from afar until the day he realised his heart no longer needed him and then, in desperation, he was left to find someone new.”

Ignoring John’s forceful “now see here, Myc-“ the British Government merely raised one commanding eyebrow as he continued talking. “The problem with modern fairy tales is that we have forgotten that they rarely have happy ever afters.  I implore you, John, to think very carefully before you leave this room. The choice before you is an unpalatable one for either way at least one person will have to live with a broken heart.”

“I don’t care.” John shouted as he threw the whiskey glass still clutched in his hand at the wall. “I don’t bloody care, Mycroft, what you've got to say. I love him!” And he did, didn't he. That was the crux of the whole matter. He, Doctor John Watson, was helplessly in love with his best friend and he was done trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. It was time to sort this mess out and claim his happy ever after. Maybe not all stories get a happy ending but this time, this story could – he was owed it, wasn't he?

“That little story of yours just proves I have to speak up. This whole wedding is the sham I always thought it was. He doesn't love her, he loves me – you've just said so! It’s not too late to sort this mess out and I can’t… I won’t chose someone else over him again…I won’t do it”.

Mycroft’s face, which had softened while he had been talking to John, hardened perceptibly at this avowal regaining its marble like immovability. It was everything he had feared would come from this knowledge and left precious few options open to him should the doctor go through with his promise.  
  
Irritated and more than a little put out by the doctor’s obstinate short sightedness, the older Holmes spat “Oh do wake up John! True love and happy ever after doesn't exist -  even in fiction. It only appears to because the story stops after one crisis is solved and before the next one hits. Sleeping beauty isn't marrying the prince that awoke him – that prince left and my brother found someone else. Three years ago my brother stood where I was today and gave away the man he re-wrote the world for to a woman who not thirty days later very nearly killed him. Sherlock knew she was a liar and dangerous – but in deference to you and _your choice_ he ignored the evidence and instead planned your wedding. I can assure you, John, had I known who your wife was back then she would not have lived to see your wedding day, and perhaps that would have been better for all involved, but for better or worse this was the path that was chosen – and like so much else, it was your choices which led us here. But make no mistake about this, doctor, your wife continues to live only at the sufferance and intercession of my brother – a fact of which _she_ , at least, is well aware.”

“What?” John laughed darkly “are you threatening Mary? Is that where you’re going with this?” he demanded, his voice taking on a mocking quality. “Tell Sherlock and you’ll what? Kill my wife? Make me disappear? Come now, Mycroft, I thought you had learnt by now that your threats don’t work on me.”

Mycroft sighed, this is why he had underlings to deal with common people. John was reasonably intelligent…at least by normal standards, but the stupidity of ordinary people and their emotions were draining. “No John, that was not a threat. That was a statement of fact and an intimation of what will happen if you do decide to pursue this particularly plot. Your wife shot Sherlock once before in order to preserve her secret and by extension your marriage. Sherlock staid my hand because he valued your happiness above his need for revenge. What do you think will happen if your happiness is no longer intertwined with your marriage? Do you think all the parties involved will be happy to settle your romantic entanglement in a calm and equitable manner, letting bygones be bygones? Because I can assure you that my brother has neither forgotten nor forgiven Ms Morstan for her attempt on his life and nor have I.”

A quick glance at John’s now ashen face was heartening confirmation that the light bulb working overtime in the doctor’s average little head was at last starting to flicker into life. “The day your marriage to Mary Morstan ends is the day that all the pieces which have so far been prevented from moving will be free to act as they wish. A woman of your wife’s intelligence and pedigree will know that the moment you are no longer bound to her, her life will be forfeit for her crimes. What do you think a person like that will do when she not only loses the man she is convinced she loves to her greatest rival but also her only protection?”

“You…you think that…”John trailed off, unable to voice the obvious conclusion.

“No, John, I don’t _think_ , I know! She has done this before and people are nothing if not predictable”.

Mycroft’s raised a quelling eyebrow at the shaken doctor in front of him, sneer firmly fixed in place as delivered the coup de grace.

“ _You_ broke my brother’s heart when you married Mary Morstan, _you_ broke it again when you chose to forgive her for nearly killing him, but you came close to actually destroying it when you shut him out so that you could concentrate on your wife and daughter. You, the man who woke his heart in the first place, chose to leave him alone and now that enlightenment has at last dawned in your measly little brain you think you can take back what you so carelessly threw away. He died for you, lied for you, committed murder for you and you still chose the wife whose real name you don’t even know. You didn't even try to include him after a while other than the occasional invitation to an over-crowded party. I think it was that exclusion which finally convinced him to let you go and, as the trite saying goes, to move on. My brother was lonely and so very alone. He needed someone to care enough to put him first. Emma might not be what you expected or wanted, John Watson, but she is what Sherlock needed.”

 “I never knew he…I don’t think I wanted to know” John admitted quietly, face grey and lined as his eyes fixed on the window towards the personification of his mistakes.

“The lie is usually much easier to bear than the truth” Mycroft agreed humourlessly as he studied his umbrella. The doctor was nearly there now – all it should take it one more little push. “That’s why humanity is so good at it; the lies we tell each other are nothing compared to the lies we tell ourselves. I suppose the only question now that you know the truth is - are you going to break his heart again”.

With those final words the British Government picked up his still half full whiskey glass before sauntering out of the door.

Through the window John saw Mycroft appear outside, materialising next to his brother and sister-in-law before sweeping the new Mrs Holmes off to the dance floor. The party carried on, flowing around the Holmes’, buzzing with happiness and celebration. Alone in the conservatory, John realised no one had noticed his absence. 

 

_It should have been me_   
_Don't you know that it should have been me?_   
_You know that it should have been me_   
_It should have been me_   
_I've been faithful to you, baby, baby, baby_

 

Time passed, as was its habit recently, far too fast. Standing in the previously sunny room, John blankly watched the shadows creep up the walls as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon. The guests were coming in, voices joyful and happy as they trickled into the house to find the evening’s entertainment, but John was in no mood to join them. He had wanted to confront Sherlock; to yell at him, scream about the injustice, the wrongness of this rush-job wedding. He had wanted to pull the truth out, bit by bloody bit, and then parade it in front of his counterfeit bride until she saw that she was nothing to Sherlock compared to John – that she was temporary, a substitute. That it was him Sherlock really loved.

Somewhere between Sherlock’s apparent death and that blasted wedding invitation he had forgotten what mattered. Duty had overridden love while expectation had run rough shod over what was right. And with it he had lost Sherlock to the arms and company of someone who recognised the peerless jewel in front of her; who saw and refused to lose sight or let go of it, just as he had once promised. 

The week before, when he had turned up unexpected at St. Barts., fist clenched around the newly rediscovered wedding invitation, Molly had asked him what he had expected Sherlock to do, if he had assumed that no one else would want him because he, John, had not. The normally mousey pathologist had actually shouted at him; bellowing across the cafeteria whether John had thought his brilliant, attractive friend would stay single and alone for the rest of his life – unchanging and available for whenever John wanted him or deigned to remember his existence. Her recriminations had stung and he had been angry at the unjustness of what his friend had said, and the implications which unsettled and threatened his neatly ordered world.

Now the truth left a horrid, acrid taste in his mouth.

He _had_ expected Sherlock to stay at Baker Street, he _had_ expected to remain his best and closest friend; unopposed and without competition. He _had_ assumed Sherlock would never marry, that his place in the detective’s affections would remain un-supplanted; that they had time, or perhaps that time didn't matter - that it wouldn't affect them – the one unchanging thing in an ever changing world. 

Mycroft was right; they – all his friends – had been right. He had been jealous and too buried in his own lies to see it.  He had been so full of righteous fury; so completely convinced that this could be nothing but a sham and so angry over being pushed out, neglected and forgotten. He’d been so consumed by anger that he had failed to see that what he was really angry about, what really hurt him was Sherlock’s apparent infidelity in choosing someone else; someone who wasn't John.

But he had got it backwards. It wasn't Sherlock who had left him but he who had been unfaithful. It was John who had abandoned Sherlock.

 

_It should have been me_   
_How could you do this to me?_   
_You know that it should have been me._

Mycroft had accused him once in the aftermath of the Magnussen/Mary affair of not knowing what he really wanted. The more-than-usually-dour Holmes had warned him then, as Sherlock once again pitted his wits against a Moriarty, that this blind spot would one day break more hearts than his own if he wasn't careful. Full of the self-arrogance only ignorance can create he had replied that he _had_ what he wanted and didn't need the input of an Ice-man who had never had a meaningful relationship in his life. That he could, and would, keep both Mary and Sherlock. Mycroft hadn't even deigned to reply, just looked at him with that smugly-pitying-superior way of his and told him it was on his own head.

The irony that Mycroft, of all people, had been right _then_ and right _now_ was a bitter pill to swallow. He had been unforgivably blind for far too long and now it was too late. Either way he chose he could not win; hearts would be broken, all that changed was who. To have Sherlock he would have to destroy two marriages, turn his neatly world upside down by confessing the lies he had lived by for decades and run the very real risk of unleashing an infuriated ex-assassin on the people he loved most.

A line from that Star Trek movie Mary had convinced him to watch last week floated across his mind: “what you want is irrelevant. What you've chosen is at hand”. John laughed humourlessly as he stared out at the now dark grounds. Spock’s observation couldn't have been more appropriate than if that line had been written specifically with the fuck-ups of John Watson in mind.

 

********************

 

Three days later, while sitting at their kitchen table, Mary shoved the newly arrived newspaper under her husband’s nose eagerly pointing out the large four page spread devoted to The Consulting Detective’s fairy tale wedding.

Staring blankly at the smiling faces beaming up at him from the paper, John absently traced the large centre piece picture of the Bride and Groom during the afternoon reception.

It should have been him standing beside Sherlock on the lawn of an unbelievably posh mansion.

It should have been him their friends and family were toasting.

It should have been him.

But he had chosen Mary.

And now he had to live with it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's it folks *hides under the table to avoid the angry JohnLock fans wielding pitchforks*. 
> 
> This is unbetad so any typos/mistakes are completely my own. I love comments so any thoughts, please let me know, and thank you for reading :).


End file.
